


Whiskey & Rain

by speedgriffon



Series: It's Just a Flesh Wound | Rosie Sheridan Fics [6]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotions, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Injury Recovery, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possible Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, alcohol & drinking, friendship building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: After an Enclave ambush, Rosie and Butch seek shelter from a Wasteland rainstorm. She’s got a sprained ankle, complicating matters, since Butch’s medical knowledge is severely lacking. Her emotions are already running wild as it is. At least there’s a bottle of whiskey to share and keep them warm, right? Oh, did I mention there’s only one bed?
Relationships: Butch DeLoria/Female Lone Wanderer, Butch DeLoria/Lone Wanderer
Series: It's Just a Flesh Wound | Rosie Sheridan Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710277
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	Whiskey & Rain

_Fuck the Wasteland_

Rosie had come to the conclusion about halfway through the firefight with the Enclave patrol that ambushed her and Butch on their way back to Megaton from Girdershade. Maybe it wasn’t the _best_ decision to follow the main road, but it was smarter than wandering through the rough terrain and risk running into radscorpions or a _deathclaw_. The unit was comprised of four Enclave soldiers toting laser weapons—two had been vaporized by her plasma rifle when gloomy clouds appeared in the never-ending sky above their heads and it began to rain.

And it wasn’t like the trickle that soothed her to sleep as it pitter-pattered against the metal walls of her home—no, this rainstorm was the most torrential downpour she’d experienced since leaving Vault 101. Rosie would’ve been terrified, if she wasn’t so distracted by the men in darkened power armor trying to kill her. The rain and flashes of lightning didn’t make her already poor aim any better.

“Damnit,” she cursed, more to herself, glancing over to find Butch focused on reloading his weapon from a crouched position. He hadn’t heard her, and if he had, or could read her mind, he’d probably laugh and tease her for the profanity— _so unladylike_.

The harder the rain fell—heavy splotches catching on her glasses and distorting her vision further—the more difficult pinning down the last two enemies became. She maneuvered along the rocky ledge she and Butch were using for cover, only to slip on a slick patch of mud. Rosie shrieked, dropping her weapon to the side so she could catch herself before falling face-first against the sharp gravel. Either way, the landing still hurt, her hands and wrists aching with as she pushed herself up. What was worse, she realized, as she tried to stand, was that her ankle was badly twisted—maybe even fractured.

“ _Ha_! Take that, ya’ son-of-a—”

Her companion’s taunting was interrupted by the rapid firing of a laser pistol, the red beams instantly smoldering as they met nearby boulders and pavement. Butch ducked his head down, and only then seemed to notice Rosie’s current state, though his face and expression were hard to see through her fogged-up glasses.

He shuffled closer, and she grimaced as she turned to lean against the ledge. “You shot?”

“No,” she answered. At least she didn’t think so. Bullet wounds were one thing, but energy blasts—even against armor—weren’t the easiest to treat. _Especially_ by somebody with untrained hands. Rosie made a mental note to teach Butch about tending to injuries—she certainly had the medical journals to spare.

She made a feeble attempt to wipe away the rain from her face but it was no use. Instead, she tilted her chin over the rocky hill, gesturing to the sound of the gunfire. “How many are left?”

“One,” Butch answered, grumbling as he inspected his pistol. “I’m outta ammo.”

She resisted the urge to reprimand him for being so carless, always a little too trigger-happy when it came to fighting Wasteland threats. Then again, Butch was never one for discipline. Rosie reluctantly nudged the plasma rifle towards him, and hoped she wasn’t opening a can of expired cram (weren’t _all_ cans of cram expired, she mused to herself).

“Here,” she said, blindly searching for her bag that had been lost in the scuffle so that she could pass him a few microfusion cells. When she turned her head back, Rosie found him too close for comfort, placing her messenger bag in her lap. It had seen better days, the canvas fabric streaked with mud and dirt. “T—Thanks.”

Butch’s face was a little easier to make out in that close proximity, and she paused, struck by the way he looked with the rain in his eyes, caught on his long lashes and shining on his tanned skin. Even his usually coifed hair was now comically flat, drooping down across his forehead and begging for her to reach out and brush away.

“Well?” he prompted, interrupting her thoughts. He picked up the rifle, inspecting it carefully and testing the weight of it in his arms, a smirk pulling at his lips. There was a reason she’d never let him handle it before—it had already gone to his head. “Ain’t got all day, Stitches. Wanna get zapped, or drown?”

Any _nice_ feeling she might’ve been having about him popped like a balloon. Rosie groaned, pursing her lips as she rummaged through the outside pocket of her bag for the ammo casing.

“Don’t be wasteful, these are hard to find.” she expressed, placing it in his open palm. Expensive too, she thought. She gave him a skeptical look, suddenly having doubts. Maybe it would be better if she tried to take the last soldier down, even with her impaired vision and wobbly legs. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“How hard can it be?” he asked, snapping the microfusion cell into place with a resounding _slap_. His confidence was _not_ reassuring. He leaned in closer and Rosie winced as the back of her head hit the sharp edge of the cliffside as she instantly backed away. Why was he always doing that? Butch snickered, though it was hard to hear him properly with the howling wind and the echoing sounds of laser beams hitting the rock formations they were hiding behind. “Now, sit pretty while the Butch-man saves the day.”

Rosie would’ve rolled her eyes if he hadn’t just called her pretty. Her hands clenched around the bag in her lap, a lot more thankful for the rain as it soothed her suddenly very warm face. She watched, tilting her head to look over the rim of her glasses to see Butch’s blurry form maneuver along the rocky barrier with the rifle in his hands. He waited, timing the Enclave soldier’s shots until there was a moment of silence, jolting up to return fire. Rosie counted the shots, smiling despite herself when Butch taunted the enemy before shooting off one final round. He’d used less than half the clip—not too bad—for his first time.

“Oh _yeah_!” he exclaimed, lowering the rifle slightly to pump one fist in the air. “Look at _that_!”

Despite the aching in her leg, she twisted her body and gradually pulled herself up to stand and lean against the cliffside. Not a few yards away sat a large pile of green goo, still smoldering even as it was slowly mixed into the dirt by the rain. She looked back to Butch, who was far too excited about the vaporized remains. No more energy weapons for him, she quickly decided. Not unless he got proper training—it would go nicely with the stack of medical textbooks she planned to give him, whether he liked it or not.

“Lootin’ time?” he asked, nudging her in the shoulder. Rosie wavered, hissing sharply when the weight shifted painfully along her ankle and foot. Butch’s expression changed, eyebrows furrowing as he looked at her, noticing the way she was hunched over the rockface and favoring her right leg. All the humor seemed to drop from his face, propping the plasma rifle against the rocks before inching closer. “Said you weren’t shot.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, adjusting herself so she could bend her left knee backwards, alleviating the pressure. “My ankle is sprained,” she paused but decided there was no use in holding back her medical observations. “It might be broken.”

Rosie might have laughed at Butch’s deep frown if it wasn’t being directed at her. It was hard to tell if it was one of sympathy, or annoyance. If he had any kind of snide or clever remark to say, he didn’t get the chance, the sky loudly crackling with a roll of thunder as the rain came down even harder. He grabbed the plasma rifle again, slinging it over his back before offering her his arm. She hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand.

“Well?” he wiggled his fingers. “I’m offerin’ to help, so don’t say I never did anything nice for ya’”

Rosie softly smiled, recalling plenty of kind gestures he’d performed since they’d reunited, patched up their differences, and became unlikely friends. After situating her messenger bag across her body, she grabbed his hand, and he moved it to wrap his arm around her middle to keep her propped up against him.

She rested her arm around his shoulder, gesturing to the road. “We just passed an abandoned stop-and-shop. It’s a few clicks west.”

Butch nodded, and slowly the two started their departure from the ambush site, Rosie dragging her foot between them. Halfway to the pre-war gas station, the storm clouds darkened with the evening sky, the rain and windchill causing her to involuntarily shudder. Without a word, Butch pulled away from her, gripping her wrist tight enough so she wouldn’t topple over without his support.

“Wha—”

“I dunno about you,” Butch explained, passing her the plasma rifle and situating it across her back. In return, he took the bag of supplies. “But I don’t feel like freezin’ to death. _Slowpoke_.”

She was about to say something, _anything_ in rebuttal to the teasing insult when he crouched down in front of her, glancing over his shoulder at her expectantly. “Wha—”

Again, he interrupted her. “What’s it look like? Lemme carry you, it’ll be faster.”

Her instinct was to say no, especially to a _piggy-back-ride_. She wasn’t a child. But the alternatives; slung over his shoulder or worse— _bridal style_ in his arms—made her shiver. Or maybe that was just the rain again. Reluctantly, she nodded, holding tightly to his shoulders as she climbed onto his back. She shut her eyes tightly, biting down on her bottom lip as to not make a ludicrous sound at the feel of his hands looping around her thighs and knees, securing her around his waist as he stood.

Rosie reflexively tightened her elbows around his neck, daring to peek open her eyes as he moved, briskly walking down the paved road. “Don’t drop me.”

“Don’t _choke_ me,” he retorted, voice strained. “You aren’t heavy, Stitches. Even when soaking wet.”

She remained silent the rest of the trip to the abandoned storefront, a tiny little shop with boarded up windows that sat adjacent to a long-forgotten highway gas-pump. Relics of another time, before the Great War, when people used cars to travel long distances instead of walking them. Would’ve come in handy when getting stuck in the rain, she was sure. Butch lowered her to the ground outside the shop’s entrance, and she leaned against the wall as he pried off the wooden planks that barred the door. Surprisingly, beyond that, it wasn’t locked.

“Plasma me,” Butch gestured for the rifle and Rosie blinked before registering his intentions, slinging off the weapon from her shoulders and passing it back to him. Better him to sweep the building for critters than she. Regardless, she hopped along after him through the entranceway—if she had to spend another moment in the rain, she’d probably cry. Just as she closed the door behind them, and secured the chain lock, Butch called out from somewhere further back in the store. “Nothin’ here!”

Nothing but dust and the remnants of a pre-war convenience store, she observed, glancing at the 200-year-old shelves. Rosie used them for balance as she made her way back to where Butch was standing, the rifle placed on the counter as he observed the set-up of the minimal furniture in the back-area space. There were two chairs, a small table with a stack of magazines, a metal crate and one, twin-sized bed, pushed up against the back wall.

_Great_. 

Rosie didn’t have time to voice her sentiments when the entire shack rumbled with a terrible shake of thunder. The sheer intensity of the sound made her flinch, lunging forward to grasp the filthy shop counter so she wouldn’t fall. Butch didn’t react in the same way—didn’t do anything but turn back to face her with an expression that was stuck between amused and pity.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” he said, pushing the bag of supplies off his shoulder and onto the space between them.

Rosie watched his movements carefully, the way he unclasped his Pip-Boy from his wrist before setting it down. She trembled, limping around the counter so she was closer to the chair—she really needed to sit down. Lightning flashed through the cracks in the boarded-up windows and after a few seconds, another _boom_ of thunder resonated through the sky. “You aren’t?”

“Nah,” Butch answered with a shrug, removing his leather jacket and inspecting it with a frown. He shook out the loose rainwater before slinging it over where the plasma rifle was. “Ain’t half as bad as the stuff we’ve seen together, out there,” he pointed in the general direction of outside, still focused on his wet clothing. “Lotsa more stuff to be scared of. Like right now, _like I said_ , I don’t feel like freezin’ to death.”

As if on cue, his words caused her teeth to chatter and an intense shiver to run up her spine. She was certain it was the cold that time, even as he continued to pluck at his clothing, pulling at the zipper of his vault suit. Her cheeks went warm again, and she widened her eyes, unable to decide if she wished her glasses were still foggy from the rain or not. On a list of things she thought she’d see that day, things she _wanted_ to see, Butch DeLoria undressing was not one of them. Or was it?

_Damnit_ —she bit her tongue hard before the curse fell out of her mouth. “What are you—”

He shot her a bewildered glare, zipper down to his waist and open wide at the shoulders exposing the damp, white t-shirt beneath. “Changing clothes, what’d ya’ think? _Jesus,_ Stitches, do you _want_ me to get sick?”

Rosie recoiled, the flush on her cheeks growing hotter at the sight of his shirt, taut against his body, the fabric just translucent enough that she could see the outline of his chest beneath. The moment she realized she was staring, her embarrassment flared and she whipped around, shooting her eyes to the ceiling. What was _wrong_ with her? When did she become a doe-eyed _pervert_? He was rubbing off on her, in all the wrong ways. 

His chuckling could be heard over the sound of more shuffling fabric. “Not the best time to be a prude, _chatterbox_.”

She immediately pursed her lips to quiet the sound of her teeth, but it hardly helped. Butch scooted the bag her way until it bumped into her arm. Hesitantly she glanced over her shoulder to find him changed into a new, dry shirt, hunched over as he replaced his socks. He wasn’t wearing pants—but it wasn’t like there was a new pair in the bag anyways. Rosie averted her eyes, even if she’d seen him wandering the Megaton homestead in his boxer shorts before. _These_ were completely different circumstances.

The canvas bag was open, the contents thankfully dry due to the waterproof fabric. She dug through the supplies until she found her rolled up set of sleep clothes and a dry pair of socks. When she realized Butch was watching her, she waved her finger in a circle formation. “Turn around. Close your eyes.”

Rosie kept her eyes on him as he sighed but followed suit, crossing his arms as he turned away. She was going to count to ten before even stating to undress, but the cold and reality of her injury started to settle in. Her fingers shook as she removed her Pip-Boy, placing it near Butch’s on the countertop. They continued to tremble as she pulled at the zipper of her vault-suit, pausing to remove the armored bits that Moira had provided all those months ago. She slinked her arms out, quickly stripping the soaked undershirt and bra from her body and replacing it with the dry t-shirt instead. When it came time to shimmy the vault suit down her legs, however, it proved too difficult and she toppled over into the nearby chair with a sharp yelp.

Butch turned around in an instant, and she didn’t have time to be embarrassed by the state of her undress. Not when her ankle was throbbing—with the way her head was spinning, she couldn’t tell if it was broken or not. He approached, and she shut her eyes to save herself from looking at him, knowing full-well the kind of view he had at the moment.

“Gonna let me help ya’, Rosie?”

She never knew what to think when he switched from her childhood nickname to her birthname. It was confusing, but it usually meant he was attempting to be serious, or at least _honest_. She peeked open one eye and found him staring not at her chest or her lowered vault-suit but at her face—at her _eyes_. Her chest tightened with an uncertain, but familiar warm feeling.

“O—okay,” she finally answered, swallowing down the nervous bubble in her throat. She pointed at the bag on the counter. “You’ll need the medical supplies.”

Butch grabbed the entire bag before scooting the second chair so it was in front of hers. First, he passed her the folded-up _Nuka-Cola_ blanket that Sierra Petrovita had given her in exchange for Nuka-Cola Quantum. “So you can cover yourself up,” he explained, glancing away. She caught the faintest hint of what she might consider a blush. “Ya’ know, from _prying eyes_.”

Rosie bit down on her bottom lip so she wouldn’t smile, opening up the blanket and draping it across her lap to cover her exposed underwear and tucked it across her chest for warmth. “Thank you.”

He nodded and looked down at her shoes. “I’m gonna take these off for ya’”

“Okay,” she replied, watching him intently as he unlaced her boots just enough until he could slide her feet out, taking greater care with her left foot. Next came her wet socks, though he didn’t offer her a new pair right away, and it took him tugging on the bottom of her vault-suit to understand why. “I can do it.”

“Sure,” he responded sarcastically. “Is that why ya’ fell over into that chair?”

Rosie didn’t have a response, though she hardly ever had one for his quips. The _brainfreeze_ didn’t help matters. She got the suit down to her knees when he silently convinced her to let him take the fabric from her hands, carefully removing it the rest of the way. Even so, she whimpered at the pain in her ankle, wincing at the throbbing ache.

“Sorry!” Butch’s hands froze mid-air, one grey sock dangling from his fingers as he stared up at her with wide eyes. She gritted her teeth and clenched her hands into the blanket, if only to prevent herself from reaching out to brush the dark hair from his face.

“I’m—” she stopped, inhaling sharply when he moved to grab her right foot, sticking it into the sock for her. “I could’ve done that.”

“You don’t have to do _everything_ , ya’ know,” Butch replied, brows furrowed. She grit her teeth, softly gasping as he adjusted her left foot so it was propped up on his knees. “Let somebody else take care of ya’ every once in a while.”

Rosie silently nodded in response, too focused on the rapid beating of her heart to say anything. He leaned over to dig through the bag, fishing out the metal tin that protected her precious medical supplies, along with the copy of _D.C. Journal of Internal Medicine_. She leaned over to grab the book before he got distracted by flipping through the pages.

“Betcha been waitin’ to train me on all this medical mumbo-jumbo,” Butch muttered as he opened the medical kit, sifting through the contents with a few fingers. Rosie plucked the thick ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark from the pages and sighed—he didn’t know the half of it.

“I’d rather not be injured,” she said, gathering up her dark hair and squeezing out the remnants of rainwater before tying it up so it wasn’t sticking to her face or the back of her neck. She took off her glasses for a moment, wiping them on the blanket so they were free of any smudges—well, as smudge-free as she could make them. “My ankle isn’t broken.”

“How’d ya’ know that?” Butch asked, glancing up at her as he lifted a stimpak from the case, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“Don’t waste that,” she said first, prompting him to put it back with a quizzical expression. She’d teach him about pain management and the reason why not _every_ injury needed a stim later. “It isn’t broken because if it were, I’d be in a lot more pain.”

“Oh.”

She nodded, pointing to the box in his lap next to her injured foot. “The gauze wrap. You’ll have to wrap it tight. Up and over and around the arch of my foot for support.”

Butch gave a curt nod, setting the medical case aside as he gathered the roll of gauze in his hands. At least they were clean from the rain, otherwise they’d have to waste a bottle of purified water tending to injuries. He gave a tentative press to one side of her ankle, holding the weaved fabric in place as he circled it around her foot, just as she’d instructed. His gentle touch was surprising, just as much as his quick learning—even if it wasn’t a complicated procedure.

“Probably would look worse too, huh?” he broke the silence, glancing up for a second before focusing back on his work. “If it was broken, I mean. Like when Wally punched me in the nose, remember that?”

“More,” she responded, and she saw the subtle flinch in his movements, causing her to whole body to heat. She didn’t mean it like— _boys_ and their gutter minds. “Tighter, I mean.”

Her body felt numb, but it wasn’t from the cold. “I— _yes_. I remember. You sneezed blood all over my lab coat. My dad gave you both a scolding.”

He laughed but swallowed it back almost immediately. “Sorry, Rosie.”

They’d already been down that road, apologizing for whatever had happened in the vault, but it didn’t hurt to hear it again once in a while. She smiled, testing the tension of the bandages once he had finished wrapping them around her ankle.

“I’m sorry too,” she said, continuing before he could interrupt. “I broke your nose the second time.”

Butch laughed again, but this time the amusement lingered on his face at the memory. “Yeah, yeah. I deserved that, though.”

Silence settled between them, and Rosie wasn’t sure what to say or do. Butch offered her the other sock to her pair and she slowly rolled it onto her foot, lowering it to the ground once finished. His eyes flicked down and her eyes followed just as he reached out to gently grasp her wrists.

“Your hands,” he spoke quietly, frowning as he observed the scrapes on her palms. “From the rocks?”

Rosie blinked. “They were sharp.”

Butch rolled his eyes at her simple response, placing her hands down between them as he grabbed the small bottle of alcohol from the medical kit, and a cotton swab. “I think I’ve seen you do this enough to be an expert.”

As he sanitized the scratches, she couldn’t help but study his face, mesmerized by his unnaturally calm and collected bedside manner. Well, _chairside_ manner. He wrapped one hand in a lighter gauze to create a bandage, taping it closed—her other palm only had superficial marks, and they didn’t need to waste medical supplies on patching it up. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, catching him off guard.

Butch shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?”

She was at a loss for words again, staring at his face with what was probably a dumbstruck expression. He started packing up the medical tin but pointed to the contents. “Sure ya’ don’t want a stimpak, or a med-x?”

Rosie nodded, remaining silent as he shoved it back into her canvas bag. He handed her the folded-up pair of pajama pants she’d tried to change into and stood up, stepping back to where he’d been standing before with his back turned. She thought about asking ‘what if I need help’ but decided that was too daring, even for her. Instead she quickly slipped her feet into the pajamas, sliding them up her legs beneath the blanket before pushing herself up from the chair. With her ankle tightly wrapped in a makeshift brace, it was much easier to stand and pull up the pants the rest of the way, securing them at her waist with a knot.

“Need me to carry you to bed?” Butch asked, with only the slightest hint of debauchery.

“N—no,” Rosie responded, even if the sudden intrusive thought that penetrated her mind was thrilling. She limped, thankful it wasn’t a long distance between where she’d been sitting and the mattress, which had seen better days. Butch followed, and she flinched at his sudden closeness, sliding away from him as he reached down to snatch the blanket away. “ _Hey_!”

“I’m just—” he shot her an annoyed look as he walked back towards the knocked over shelves and shook out the blanket, freeing it from as much dust as possible. “See?”

_Oh_. She sat down on the edge of the bed and did the same to the ancient pillow, watching the plume of dirt rise through the air and then to the ground. As unpleasant at it was, she’d slept in worse conditions, and could count on taking a warm, sanitizing shower when she was back home in Megaton. The thought of warm, running water suddenly reminded her of how cold she was and how not even the _Nuka-Cola_ blanket was helping.

Butch reappeared with the bigger, moderately less-dusty blanket and a suspiciously wicked grin. “Lookie what I found!”

He sat down, causing the springs of the mattress to bounce and shift her body closer to his. He draped the blanket across their laps before showing off his prize. In his free hand was a sealed bottle of amber liquid— _whiskey_. Of course. Out of anything else one could scavenge for in a pre-war convenience store, Butch DeLoria would find the booze.

Rosie sighed, disinterested. Her toes were cold. So were her fingers— _and_ her nose. “Anything else?”

Butch faltered, the flicker of disappointment brief as he passed her a small box— _Fancy Lad Snack Cakes_. She didn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but they sure beat some of the other pre-war food they came across sometimes. Plus, snack cakes were one of the few things she actually missed about the vault that she could find on the surface. Stuffed with so many preservatives that after 200 years, they only tasted a _little_ stale.

“No Cola?” she questioned, watching as he peeled the wax off the top of the bottle. She opened the packaging in her lap and plucked free a pale blue miniature cake.

“We gave it all to that crazy lady, remember?” he said, tossing the debris to the floor with the rest of the Wasteland trash. He unscrewed the bottle and flashed her curious look. “Doesn’t alcohol keep you warm?”

“You’re the expert,” Rosie replied, not meaning to sound sarcastic as she chewed on the sweets. Judging by his smirk, he took it as a joke. “Medically speaking, yes. Mild intoxication tends to warm one’s body.”

“Well then,” he chuckled, lifting the bottle. “Maybe we should get _mildly intoxicated_. Ya’ know, for the warmth.”

Rosie narrowed her eyes at him, knowing exactly what he was doing, trying to talk her into some kind of game. Even if he was _technically_ right. He tilted back his head to take a generous swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with his wrist when he was done. A momentary—and perhaps very _stupid_ —burst of bravery washed through her.

“Give me that,” she demanded, sounding more like a stubborn schoolchild than the young-adult she was, out to prove herself against her childhood bully turned friend. _Friend_. She hated that word, and what it meant for them. But she didn’t want to get lost in her melancholy thoughts or feelings—no—she wanted to prove herself. Butch seemed reluctant to let the bottle of whiskey go, swapping her for the snack cakes, watching as she lifted it to her lips before taking a hesitant sip, larger than she intended. Despite the fact it tasted _foul_ , she gulped it down, widening her eyes at the fire that immediately bloomed in her throat, chest and stomach. “Oh—oh _God_.”

“Ha!” Butch laughed, munching on a tiny cake before reaching to take the alcohol back from her. “You should see your face.”

It felt on fire too. Flushed and warm and— _thank God_ she was finally warm. At least the medical theories were right about that. She pushed a few fingers against her cheeks, knocking her glasses askew. “Is there something on it?”

“No,” he said softly, still staring at her in a way that made her skin prickle with goosebumps. “Ya’ never wear your hair up like that.”

Rosie shook her head, lifting her hands to run her fingers through the ponytail. She thought about pulling out the ribbon when he spoke again. “It looks nice.”

On top of the alcohol, his compliment made her entire body flush with a delightful kind of heat she wasn’t ready to lose. She glanced at his head, smiling at the natural curls as his hair dried. It was endearing to see, knowing how rare a sight it was—maybe she’d have to steal away all his pomade, even if it caused a fight.

He chuckled, noticing her reaction, taking another, smaller sip of the whiskey. Rosie protested, creasing her eyebrows. “Oh no, don’t—there’s germs!”

“I already drank from it,” he snickered at her realization. “You’ve already got my cooties.”

“Ugh,” she responded, pushing her face further into her hand. “Not _DeLoria_ cooties.”

“Well _ex-cuuu-see_ me,” he mocked offense, passing the bottle back with a sideways smile. 

She giggled, though her mind was clear enough to register the foreign sound and the fact that she had been talking and speaking in such an uncharacteristic manner. Rosie glanced at the label and took a larger gulp, trying not to sputter at the taste she couldn’t get used to— _never_ again. She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed.

“Very mature.”

Rosie pointed an accusatory finger at his stupid, handsome face. Why did she like his face? “I’m more mature than you!”

He leaned in with not much of an argument. “Nuh uh!”

“I’m _smarter_ ,” she retorted, pushing at his shoulder as he snatched the bottle from her hands. Instead of shoving her away like he used to do when they were younger, he tugged her closer, hand wrapped around her wrist—a much different tactic when it came to teasing. Rosie wasn’t sure what to do, but the words fell from her mouth unprompted. “Cuter too, right?”

There it was, the something stupid she was afraid of saying. All it took was a little bit of liquid courage and suddenly she was brave enough to say something _mildly_ flirtatious. They were so close now, maybe—maybe he’d _kiss_ her—or maybe she’d kiss him. The longer she stared into his baby-blues, the more she felt like she was drowning, or maybe she already had, outside in the rain.

“Rosie,” he spoke her name in a breath and what she wouldn’t give to have him repeat it over and over again until it was the only sound she could hear. His hands encircled hers and she briefly wondered where the bottle had gone. “Your hands are cold.”

“Hmm.”

She titled herself closer, closing her eyes, smiling in a delirious way when her forehead landed against his shoulder. Not quite where she wanted to be, but it was a start. Butch’s voice was distant, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Let’s get ya’ warmed up.”

She didn’t remember falling asleep. When Rosie opened her eyes, the room was dark except for the light coming from Butch’s Pip-Boy. He was sitting in the nearby chair, still awake. She couldn’t tell what time it was, but she couldn’t have slept long.

A sudden bombardment of memories, as clear as day, flashed through her mind, and the most embarrassment she’d ever felt washed over her. In a tipsy— _drunken_ —haze, she’d made a pass at Butch. Tried to _kiss_ Butch. _Jesus Christ_ , she’d never live it down. She’d never leave that bed again, just roll over and smother herself into the dusty pillow. Maybe there was the chance he wouldn’t remember, but she doubted that. Either way, there was no easy way out. Curiosity got the better of her, and she hesitantly poked her head out of the blankets that had been tucked around her body.

“Butch?” she whispered, catching his attention. He glanced up from whatever game he’d been playing, the noises fading away. “Why are you awake?”

“Why are _you_?” he mimicked her hushed tone, gesturing to the spread-out bedroll on the floor. Though, to her, it looked more like a dark blob without her glasses. “It isn’t dry yet.”

“Oh,” she responded. Rosie chewed on her bottom lip, unable to see his face. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Are you?” he asked back, but it wasn’t condescending.

“A little,” she answered, hiding the truth, snuggling back under the layers of blankets. It was still raining, the howl of wind rattling the store’s walls—it was any wonder she was still freezing. “Don’t you want a banket?”

“Are you offering to share?”

“Yes— _wait_ ,” she widened her eyes when she realized the implication. She was only offering him _one_ of the blankets, not— “I’m not—”

“You aren’t?” Butch’s tone made it clear he was teasing her, as he stood to place his Pip-Boy back down on the countertop. “I ain’t gonna lie, been gettin’ a _lotta_ mixed signals from ya’ tonight.”

Oh, he definitely remembered.

“Stop teasing me!” she frowned, even if he couldn’t see. Or maybe he could, now that he was looming over the bed. “Or you don’t get the blanket!”

“What if I steal it anyways?” Rosie didn’t have a response, pouting even more. Butch snickered as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Come on Rosie, scootch over.”

_Hey now_ —she wasn’t that easy. Even if she’d contradicted that earlier in the night. She glared up at him, focusing on what she could see of his face. Where _were_ her glasses anyways?

“You aren’t sleeping here unless you agree to my conditions,” she started, watching his shoulders slump as he sighed. “No sneaky, wandering hands,” she wet her teeth, a brief flash of what that might feel like causing a lapse in her thoughts and words. “No drooling on my hair, no snoring in my ear, no joking or innuendo, and no _teasing_.”

“That’s a lotta rules,” he replied, but gradually began peeling back the covers. Rosie slapped his hand away and he dramatically sighed again. “ _Fine_. Gosh, whatever. I agree. Now _scoot_. I’m freezin’ out here.”

The moment he started to crawl into the bed, the reality of the situation sunk in and she immediately rolled over, curling up on her side as close to the wall as she could get.

Butch hummed, pretending to be put out. “What, can’t face me?”

“I said no teasing!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butch quietly laughed, adjusting himself beside her.

Despite the fact he said he’d been cold, his body radiated warmth. And even though she’d given him a thorough list of requirements, he quickly hooked an arm around her waist, causing her to seize up. “What are you—?”

“Breakin’ the rules, like I always do,” he responded, tugging her closer. She tried to protest, but he hushed her. “Just be warm. You can yell at me in the mornin’”

His voice whispered around her ear, causing a shiver to run from her head to her toes. Rosie tried—she really did—but the quick beat of her heart and nervous fluttering of her stomach made it hard to relax, even with the heat surrounding her. She fidgeted, shifting her legs and moving her injured foot away, her right foot back until it pushed against his shin.

“Rosie,” he mumbled, sleepily. She went still at the use of her name, never dreaming she’d ever hear it spoken quite like _that_. He lifted his leg up and over hers, pressing his calf down on her restless foot. “Cut it out.”

Butch’s breathing evened out shortly after that action, and Rosie decided it was time to follow him into slumber. She closed her eyes, settling back into his embrace. His arm reflexively tightened around her, and he mumbled something incoherent in his sleep. She smiled, thinking to herself that she might actually awake well-rested.

Sharing a bed with Butch DeLoria wasn’t something she thought she’d ever do—heck, any of the things that had transpired that evening hadn’t been expected—but now that it had happened, it was something she could certainly get used to. Rosie had to wonder if there would be a next time. 

**Author's Note:**

> say hello over on tumblr @ [potatocrab](https://potatocrab.tumblr.com/)
> 
> kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
